


Take a Chance on Me

by quartetship



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orchestra, M/M, Musicians, commission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 02:49:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4547277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[But something just as warm ignited in his chest when Marco closed the door behind himself and leaned backward against it, arms crossed comfortably over his chest as he grinned.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take a Chance on Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jackcatmeow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackcatmeow/gifts).



> A commissioned fic for the lovely Jackie; hope you enjoy my take on the classic orchestra au! 
> 
> [Interested in commissioning me?](http://quartetship.tumblr.com/post/119989009939/quartetship-after-lots-of-requests-from-you)
> 
> (Feedback/comments welcome as always!)
> 
> \--

Music is a universal language.

That was something that Jean had always heard said, from the time before he was even old enough to truly understand the phrase. His father would tell him that when he was driving him to his first piano lessons, and reminded him of it proudly when Jean decided to take up horn playing in junior high. It was useful, commendable, beautiful, and understood, the world around. Music brought him close to his family, and began opening doors for him almost as soon as he'd taken up playing it.

Music was magic.

Or at least, that was the way people who listened to him play treated it. The people who came to concerts clapped and cheered when Jean played solos, his own parents leading the choruses of applause. It was as if he were doing something amazing, something that other human beings weren't capable of. But it was the fact that that _wasn't_ the case that he loved most about being a musician.

For Jean, music was math. Music was a learnable, _knowable_ thing, that he could practice and improve upon. It was measured, counted, and had rules that were easily understood, once learned. Music – no matter what piece he played, and how unlike any others it sounded – was always the same. It was reliable, day after day in its consistency.

Nothing was left to chance.

Jean rested in that fact; if there was anything that made his heart race in the worst possible ways, it was the thought of _chance._ Anything that he couldn't control was firmly rooted beyond his comfort zone, and he'd yet to find much of anything worth stepping over the safety of its boundaries for. Jean knew what he liked, and he liked what he knew. And for the most part, that was playing music, and the life that he'd made for himself doing so.

It got him through high school, traveling across the country to play in high honors bands and orchestras, excelling in solos and ensemble performances before he could even drive himself to them. It got him into college, with grades that were just above average but a talent for sight reading that spanned across three types of saxophone. And once he'd graduated, it got him the real-world job that people had warned he would never find by majoring in music performance, his first contract with an actual orchestra, being paid to do what he did best. It was a dream come true. All according to plan.

Until he met some of his fellow musicians.

The Maria Wall Orchestra was a colorful group of people, far less professional than Jean was used to working with. The feigned formality and cordiality that he had grown accustomed to in performing with groups comprised of nervous, starry-eyed hopeful musicians getting their big break was notably absent, replaced by a familiarity and casual atmosphere that made him feel disoriented and out of place. Everyone was so comfortable. Seeing the way they all relaxed in each others’ presence, Jean could hardly bring himself to do the same.

It didn't help that he was new, and that he didn't know a single person there. Everyone he played with there acted like they'd known each other for years, chumming around like old friends between performances and practices. He was fairly certain two of his fellow saxophone players – who introduced themselves on his first day as Connie and Sasha – were actually married, as attached as they seemed to be to one another, and everyone else was oddly close, as well. They moved in packs that reminded him of the cliques he'd worked so hard to avoid falling into in high school, and it was obvious that he didn't fit into any of theirs, either.

Jean, on the other hand, was entirely fresh faced. He'd not only never met any of the ensemble, he'd never even played professionally, before then. Upon arriving on his first afternoon, he had to guess whose hand to shake first, aiming for the conductor and ending up locked in an uncomfortably stiff handshake with the lead flautist, a short man with a severe face named Levi. When he was finally pointed in the right direction – toward a tall, polite man that he learned was his actual conductor, Erwin – he was almost too red in the face to make it through a brief introduction of himself. It set the tone for how he would feel about the rest of his tour with the orchestra.

Things moved quickly, with little time to adjust to his new surroundings, which in truth wasn’t a huge concern for Jean. Being an excellent sight reader, he had no trouble fitting into the overall sound of the group, though he quietly resented being seated so far down the line in his section. Still, he was new, and he couldn't logically fault people who barely knew him for not giving him the recognition he deserved. Especially when they barely seemed to notice his presence, at all.

That was the biggest source of Jean’s irritation. Everyone else seemed to belong where they were seated, whether by merit of talent, or because they knew the people surrounding them. He was alone, even surrounded by a large group of musicians. He was slow to learn any of their names, because hardly any of them had bothered to introduce themselves.

There was the quietly brilliant Mikasa, first chair violin and borderline star of the show, every performance. He'd learned her name through observation, only, hearing her praised by others rather than working up the courage to speak to her, himself. In her section, there were three people who seemed to come as a pack, another violinist named Annie, a tall, thin viola player named Bertholdt, and a standing bass player whose body every bit mirrored the instrument in his hands, named Reiner. With Annie a tiny, blonde bird perched between bulky Bertholdt and Reiner, they often played in trios that sounded as dynamic as they looked together, and moved as one offstage, as well. The string section wrapped around the place where Jean usually sat, and only served to show Jean how very isolated he was in the midst.

It's not that it really did him any harm, being alone. He had friends elsewhere, though he was short on chances to catch up with them, but the job would only last so long. He might have contentedly faded into the buzz of the background and rode out the year of his contracted tour quietly, but fate seemed to have other plans.

Fate, and a trumpet player named Eren Jaeger.

Jean's first encounter with Eren was like being thrown into an ice cold swimming pool, unprepared for the uncomfortable mess he would be as soon as it was over. They sat a few rows away from one another, and had seldom crossed paths, until an outing of the entire ensemble led to them sharing space on a bus. Eren loudly chattered with Mikasa, and a quiet, smiling blond person he referred to as Armin. How Eren actually managed to make up for the diminutive volume of both of his seat mates, Jean had no idea. He kicked at the back of Eren’s seat before he could stop himself.

“Pipe down, will you?”

Eren went quiet, and turned sharply to look over the back of the seat, peering over the headrest with narrow eyes and a genuinely confused expression.

“Me?”

Jean scowled. “Yeah _you,_ asshole. No reason for one person to be so damned loud.”  He crossed his arms and his legs at the ankles, leaning back in his own seat, assuming the conversation was over.

It wasn't.

“Who you callin’ an asshole, you prick?” Eren snapped, throwing his legs over to the side and moving to his feet. Only then did Jean notice he was climbing out of Armin’s lap to do so, thoroughly unsettling the people around them. “I'm just sittin’ here having a good time – why you gotta be a dick about it? You need me to pipe down, just ask like a normal human being.”

“What would you know about normal human beings?” Jean huffed, refusing to move from where he sat. “You apparently can't even have a conversation without screaming. How else was I supposed to tell you to shut your trap?”

“Why don't you get up here and shut it for me?” Eren gestured at Jean to stand, but before Jean could act on the very real urge to give him what he wanted, Mikasa had moved from her own seat and snatched Eren backward, throwing him back onto Armin’s lap.

“Just don't, you two.” She sighed, and gave Eren a sharp wave when he tried to explain his way back to his feet. Jean crossed his arms tighter and gave Eren one last searing glare before casting his gaze out the window, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach as he watched the world go by outside.

The only real social interaction he'd had with anyone he worked with, and it was just about as negative as he could've imagined. He spent the rest of the ride to their event seething, bitter that he'd been chastised by Mikasa over something that he was only maybe _slightly_ at fault for, and wishing he were anywhere other than sitting a few feet away from Eren Jaeger.

That night, he wondered if he'd made the right career choice, after all.

\--

It was probably foolish, he told himself. Letting a single person dampen his entire experience in the ensemble was impractical. He could hear his father’s voice in his head telling him that there was no logic behind the way he was feeling. But that didn't stop him feeling that way.

It wasn't even Eren, really.

Sure, Eren was obnoxious. Once it had been established that the two of them got along about as well as fire and water, they proceeded to clash at almost every circumstance, glaring across music stands at each other and grinning to themselves when the other was corrected by their conductor or section leader. Eren irritated Jean to no end, but he wasn't really the problem. No one person was.

Jean’s problem was the lack of people to even things out.

The only people he'd made the acquaintance of within the group were people that either made him want to punch something, or were somehow associated with that same feeling. Other than faces he distantly associated with names, he still knew no one, even after nearly a month of traveling with the orchestra. There was no one to make things better when people like Eren got the best of him. He had nothing to _enjoy._

He still had music, of course. He was still getting paid to do something he loved, albeit in a way that was increasingly annoying to him. But it was still the thing he was best at, the one thing that brought him comfort through the stability that it offered. He would always have music.

Coming up on how first solid month with the ensemble, Jean decided to enquire about moving up, in his seating within the section. He was an excellent saxophone player, after all; surely there was some way he could display this to his section leader or conductor, and be evaluated for a higher seat. But the response he received upon asking was one he wasn't expecting.

“You don't have the passion for it,” Erwin told him, politely. “You're an excellent player, Mr. Kirschtein, but your skills are technical and cold. I might be able to move you up a single chair, but for something like first chair or section leader, I like to see someone who is enjoying their art as much as their audience is. And I just don't see that in you.”

Jean left the private meeting holding back tears that couldn't decide if they were made from disappointment or rage.

Of _course_ he had passion for what he did. Why else would he _do_ it? Jean had devoted his _life_ to learning about music, to playing it and doing it well enough to earn his living, doing so. How could anyone tell him that his skill alone wasn't enough, that he lacked something intangible, something that couldn't be practiced or taught? Who was Erwin, or anyone else, to leave such an important aspect of Jean’s life up to the nearly impossible development of something he couldn't even quantify?

To leave it to _chance._

Jean flopped down into his borrowed bed face-first that evening, and breathed as slowly and deeply as he could to keep those angry tears from falling, until he was too tired to care any longer.

\--

By the time a week long span of sectional rehearsals were called for, Jean was deeply considering resigning his seat in the orchestra. He would certainly be able to find work somewhere else, even if it wasn't exactly what he wanted to be doing. At least elsewhere, he wouldn't be pressured to work toward an intangible goal while dealing with people he'd rather kick in the face than sit next to.

But rehearsal in sections wasn't so bad. The other saxophone players were alright, and they treated Jean with a measure of respect he couldn't seem to find elsewhere in the ensemble. He was still reserved in their presence, but he was able to make polite chitchat with them, and didn't feel too much like punching any of them. And the other reed players weren't bad to be around, either. Clarinets, oboes, bassoons – all the woodwind sections were comprised of level-headed, peaceful people. And one of those peaceful people caught Jean’s attention, in particular.

Marco Bodt was Maria Wall’s first chair clarinet, and possibly the most cheerful human being Jean had ever seen. He was incredibly talented, but his personality far outshone his skill, and when he played, it was as if all the happiness and zest for life he seemed to have flowed out of him through his music. The passion that Erwin had talked about was evident in him when he performed. He was something special.

Jean was immediately drawn to him, but also sharply reminded of the fact that he was fairly bad at striking up conversations, and had nothing of interest to offer in one. He and Marco seemed to be cut from entirely different cloth, in that respect. So he kept quiet, and just let the gravitational pull tugging on his chest whenever Marco was around rob him of breath.

Who needed to breathe, anyway?

\--

When his section decided to take their third crack in a single day at perfecting a piece Jean had long since gotten down, he was granted permission by his section leader to opt out, and decided to spend his time practicing on his own. The building where they usually rehearsed was full of small rooms geared toward keeping sound inside, with walls lined with acoustic paneling and doors with mufflers that slid in place beneath them. Surely he could find somewhere to tune out the world and let his mind wander alone down the lined pages of his scores.

Doing so, he lost himself to time, for a while. There was no clock, and he rarely kept his cell phone outside of his pocket, save for the use of a metronome app or to record short snippets to critique for himself later. Instead of worrying about the hours slipping by, he focused on his music, and everything else was forgotten. At least until a quiet knock interrupted him, mid-bar.

“Yeah?” He said, aiming his voice at whoever was behind the door. He assumed they couldn't hear him, but the door was sliding timidly open all the same, so he cleared his throat to repeat himself. But before he could, he saw a familiar face, and his voice stuck in his throat.

Marco, the clarinet player.

He peeked inside with a sheepish grin, knocking again on the inside of the door, and waiting for Jean to motion him in before stepping fully through the door.

"Hey, sorry, didn't mean to interrupt.”

“S’no big deal,” Jean shrugged, once he'd found use of his words again. “We wrapping up for the day, or?”

“Yeah, yeah – they said you were probably up here in one of these rooms, but since none of them had your number to call, they sent me up here looking to let you know we're done.”

Jean raised an eyebrow and blurted out a response before he could stop himself. “Why you, though?”

Marco smiled wider, shrugging one shoulder. “I volunteered.”

In all actuality, Marco was as likely a candidate as anyone else. He’d said it himself; none of the others had Jean’s number, and half of them probably didn't even know his _name,_ beyond ‘saxophone number six’. It just seemed like some sort of happy accident that Marco would be the one sent, and the fact that he'd volunteered to come search for him made Jean’s chest feel right when it really probably shouldn't have.

It was no big deal. So why couldn't Jean breathe properly?

“Well, thanks,” he finally managed, offering Marco a tight smile in response. Marco nodded.

“No problem. Didn't want you stuck up here all night. Although I'm kind of sad to have bothered you. You sounded amazing.”

At that, Jean felt a shiver of excitement grip him chest deep. He was used to receiving praise for his work, but coming from Marco it sounded considerably better, somehow. The way it fell from his smiling lips made breathing even harder. Jean swallowed, willing his throat not to close up on him again.

“Just running through some old stuff I remembered from school,” he said coolly. In truth, he'd been trying to play from memory, in hopes of finding that spark of passion that he was chasing in order to get ahead. It wasn't there to be found. But something just as warm ignited in his chest when Marco closed the door behind himself and leaned backward against it, arms crossed comfortably over his chest as he grinned.

“Can I hear some of it?” He asked, and Jean knew immediately that it would be impossible to say no to that face. But Marco seemed keen to continue buttering him up. “I know I'm not much of an audience, but…”

“No, you're great!” Jean said quickly, biting his tongue afterward at how ridiculous he was sure he sounded. But Marco laughed, sweet and low, and Jean couldn't help smiling.

“Well alright, then. Play something for me?”

And that was all he had to ask; Jean’s mouth piece was between his lips a moment later.

He played a song he remembered better than any other for Marco, one he'd always enjoyed, despite how simple it was. It was the song he'd first auditioned for anything with, the song that had made his mother smile and his father beam with pride, and the song that he still hummed whenever he was feeling down on himself. Scarcely able to form a coherent sentence around Marco, he spoke to him instead with the universal language of his favorite piece of music. And playing it, he forgot his nerves for a moment, and let himself create a moment of comfort, and share that moment with Marco.

When he finished, Marco was smiling wider than ever, and clapped quietly as he approached Jean to lean down onto the back of his chair.

"That was brilliant!” Marco beamed. “I mean, obviously I _knew_ you'd be wonderful, but that was just… You really like that song, don't you?”

“Yeah,” Jean conceded. “Why do you ask?”

“You play it with such confidence. It's obvious that it makes you happy, that you like playing it.”

"That I'm _passionate_ about it.” Jean said it in a whisper, under his breath, but Marco heard him and nodded enthusiastically.

“Exactly! That's when music really comes to life, you know. That's when it's art.”

Jean bit his lip. He wasn't sure what to say; he'd never considered music as an art, as much as a science, something exact and precise and entirely within his control. Art was unpredictable. Art was immeasurable. Art was, by nature, made from chance.

But maybe that was the component he had been missing. Maybe the passion that he was chasing wasn't found in practice, or in the precision of his work, but in chance, in the sheer enjoyment of the trial and error along the way.

It wasn't anything he was comfortable with, but neither was talking to people. And sitting with Marco Bodt hovering just behind him. Jean was suddenly a great deal more interested in stepping out of his comfort zone.

He looked up at Marco, nodding.

“Yeah. I guess you could say that. That's, uh… That's actually what I like about hearing _you_ play.”

Marco quirked his head to the side in what looked like surprise, and Jean’s breath caught in his throat, anxiety threatening to keep it there. But it was only for a moment, and then Marco smiled, a little more modestly, and hummed to himself before thoughtfully speaking.

“Didn't know you'd ever listened to me play,” he grinned. “I, um, actually don't even know your name, but…”

“My name’s Jean,” Jean offered quickly, willing himself to pretend he didn't already know Marco’s. “And I've heard you when you do solos, and in sectionals, you know? You're really great.”

“Well thank you,” Marco replied, shuffling in place in the most adorable way. “And my name is Marco.”

“Nice to meet you, Marco.” Jean said his name aloud for the first time, and tried to act like it didn't leave his tongue tingling to do so. Marco bit his lips together to keep another wide grin at bay, but it did no good. He smiled anyway, and walked back toward the door.

"We should probably get going. I'm not sure what time they lock up, but I doubt anyone else is even still around. And although I'd love to stay and listen to some more, I've got nowhere to sit.” The end of his sentence was punctuated with a smirk that was decidedly _different_ than his previous smiles, and it raised Jean’s already racing pulse along with the temperature in the room around them.

“You could always just sit on my lap,” Jean cracked, promptly wishing he could retrieve his words, or jump into his saxophone case and lock it behind him. Marco chuckled, and it eased the sting of embarrassment, just a little.

“How about you come with me to get coffee, first? Then maybe we can talk about why it's bad for your breath support for people to sit on you while you play.” The words rolled off of Marco’s tongue with the same confidence he played music with, and was even more entrancing. Jean nodded, unable to stop the ridiculous, still slightly embarrassed grin that broke across his face.

“Sounds good to me. And uh - for the record - depending on the person, a little hitch in my breath support might just be worth it.”

\--

After that, things were different.

Jean still didn't enjoy every aspect of playing in the ensemble. Eren Jaeger still existed, still sat fairly close to Jean, and despite Armin and Mikasa wrangling him, was still quick to snap back at Jean whenever an argument arose. But with Marco around to keep his attention, Jean was decidedly less interested in conflict with Eren or anyone else.

He still didn't know half the people in the orchestra, but smiling and taking to them was much easier once he was past the initial hurdle of his fears. Marco had taught him that taking a chance wasn't necessarily a bad thing, especially when that chance involved putting his feelings on the line. He was rewarded for it; when he asked Marco if they could keep going on those coffee dates – and make them an exclusive thing between them – Marco was all too happy to say yes. Jean took a chance, and came out better, for it.

So when the position for the first chair in his section became available, Jean was first in line to go out for it. Erwin wasn't shy about reminding him of what he expected out of section leaders, but Jean was ready to show him what he'd learned about things that really couldn't _be_ learned. He was ready to take a chance, the same way he had with Marco.

And it paid off.

When Jean signed on for a second, year-long tour with the Maria Wall, it was as first chair saxophone, a section leader in the making, with a very proud boyfriend sitting a few rows away. But for all the differences a year had brought to his life, some things were constants, and Jean was glad for that, too. He still had music, still spoke the universal language that he'd grown up learning, but the accent with which he spoke it had changed entirely. It was a purer, more fluent form of the thing that he'd always loved, made all the sweeter whenever he got the chance to play it privately, for the person he loved. In that way, the music that has shaped his life had changed, and changed him forever, along with it.

And he'd discovered that change purely by chance.


End file.
